I Need You
by SuddenlyTragic
Summary: Wilson was badly hurt, and House knew that before he got hit.
1. Chapter 1

I own nothin'. Hilson.

* * *

"Wait for me," House said bitterly, wincing with every step he took. Wilson walked ahead of him, hands in his coat pocket as he strode into the crosswalk.

"You should've just stayed inside," Wilson told him, glancing over his shoulder as he spoke. "Your leg isn't going to feel better in the cold."

House grumbled under his breath, trying to go faster to catch up with him. Wilson was already in the middle of the intersection by the time House got a quarter of the way in.

"Why won't you wait for me?" House whined mockingly, and Wilson slowed his steps as he got closer to the other sidewalk.

"I'm mad at you and I wanted to have a walk _alone_." Wilson turned to face House, waiting impatiently for him to hurry through. The crossing light started blinking numbers at him, telling him he only had 20 seconds left to get the hell out of the crosswalk.

"I told you I'd help you carry the beer home."

Wilson chuckled, shaking his head in resignation. "You can't even walk to the convenience store across the street at a good pace _without_ carrying anything."

"You are so judgmental when it comes to cripples."

"Perhaps we should have brought a wheelchair."

House was almost to Wilson now. He could see the emotions flitting across his partner's face, agitation, concern, and impatience swirling in his eyes.

From behind Wilson's left shoulder, House saw a silver sports car barreling down the turn lane. He opened his mouth to tell Wilson to get the hell out of the way as the car slammed on it's brakes and turned right.

"Move," House said, his words too quiet for Wilson to hear.

Everything slowed down around them. The crosswalk clock blinked 5 seconds at him. The silver car's tires squealed as it turned into the lane Wilson was standing in front of. House dropped his cane while Wilson turned, surprised.

The impact, House noted numbly, was nothing like the movies. There weren't any horrified screams from pedestrians around them, at least he didn't think so. Wilson didn't hit the middle of the car, which House thought was a good thing. The upper half of his body hit the hood of the car and he went a few feet like that before he crumpled to the icy ground. There was no flying fifty feet before landing and getting up a few seconds later with only a minor concussion.

Wilson was badly hurt, and House knew that before he got hit.

Bystanders were rushing into the intersection now, and House was stunned to see that he was already on his knees beside Wilson's immobile body. He didn't remember getting there, but his curiosity about that shattered when he started assessing Wilson's body.

"Don't touch him!" Someone yelled at House angrily. Another person was speaking to a 911 operator on the phone in hysterics.

"I'm a doctor!" House snapped, shoving hands away from him. He knew he couldn't do much physically, but he could talk to him. "Wilson? Can you hear me?" He asked, placing his lips beside Wilson's ear. Relief flooded him momentarily when he got a small groan in response. Blood pooled around them, and from what House could see, it was from his head. "Don't try to move. An ambulance will be here in a minute."

He heard someone yelling about the driver of the car. _Who gives a fuck about the driver? _House wondered angrily, running his hands lightly over Wilson's right leg. He was in a fetal position, so there wasn't much he could see. The damage would be inside his body, though, so it didn't matter to House if there were broken legs or arms. Blood came out of a small puncture wound on Wilson's knee, and he felt ill.

"Stay awake, Wilson," House told him, forcing his voice to be steady and firm. Wilson's eyes fluttered a few times in response. "It looks like I won't be the only cripple around," he said weakly, hearing sirens in the distance approaching. Wilson's lips turned up in a pained smile for a brief second before his eyes closed again. "Stay awake Wilson. If you have bleeding on your brain, you need to stay awake."

The words were for House's benefit more than Wilson's; he knew if it was bad enough, Wilson would pass out regardless of what he said. House's first reaction to _any_ situation was to analyze it logically, and it was a comfort to him that he was staying focused as he watched his best friend slip into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

I own nothing but the plot.

* * *

The ride to the hospital was a blur. All House remembered was telling the medics to go to his hospital, and that the best care Wilson could get would be in that building. Wilson's heart rate dropped repeatedly during the ride, and more than once the paramedics had to tell House to get out of their way.

"We only let you ride with us because you're a doctor," the female medic had said after the fifth time of telling House to stop touching Wilson. "If he crashes, it's on us, whether it's your fault or not. Stay out of my way."

House was reluctant but he muttered, "whatever the she-devil wants," and sat back. He wanted to grip Wilson's hand, to help set the broken knee, to do _something_. He felt more than useless watching the paramedics work.

When they got to Princeton, the ER staff was waiting outside to bring the stretcher inside. House's eyes slid over all of the people who were going to be in charge of Wilson's life, and when his eyes met Cameron's, relief flooded through him. Her eyes widened at him, realizing who was on the stretcher.

"It's Dr. Wilson, guys," House heard Cameron say, and everything slowed for House.

The medics were dragging the stretcher out of the ambulance, filling Cameron in on his stats and injuries that they saw.

He climbed out of the back of the ambulance, dazed, and realized he didn't have his cane anymore. _I must've left it in the street_. Cameron and her staff were rushing into the building, pushing the stretcher with them, leaving House behind to limp after them.

As he walked through the doors, Cuddy rushed up to him, panicked.

"What happened?" She asked, unsure of what to do with her hands. She had them half raised, as if to hug or touch him. He grimaced as his leg started to protest, and he realized he left his Vicodin at home.

"I ran," House answered, confused by her question. He blinked rapidly, looking around the hospital, and began rubbing his thigh. He muttered under his breath about finding coffee, then said, "I'm sure Wilson's awake now and I need to go tell him to hurry up."

Cuddy stopped him with her hands on his chest and looked up into his eyes. "You're in shock. Let's go sit down."

"No," House said, shaking his head vehemently. "I need to go bitch at Wilson."

"You can't help him right now. He's in good hands with Cameron. Where is your cane?" Cuddy gripped House's upper arm and started pulling him toward the nurse's station.

"I think I left it in the street. Cuddy, I need to go help."

Cuddy pushed House into a chair behind the nurse's desk gently, and knelt in front of him with a concerned expression. House watched her switch into doctor mode – something he rarely saw – and shivered involuntarily when her fingers touched his face and neck gently.

"Do you remember what happened?"

"Wilson hit a car," House said numbly, the memory of the accident suddenly playing over in his mind. "He needs to be more careful when he walks. He's the one out of the two of us who I can rely on to run from zombies when they attack. I can't risk him ruining his legs or arms because I'd eventually have to jump on his back when we run away."

Cuddy's lips pursed momentarily. She lifted House's eyelids, and he raised his hand to swat her away. She reached over to the counter and pulled down a stethoscope and put it up to her ears.

"Take a deep breath for me," she told House, pressing the chest piece to House's back. He inhaled, closing his eyes at her touch, and breathed out. "Good. At least your breaths aren't shallow."

"Thank God you're here. I wouldn't have known I was breathing if it weren't for you."

Cuddy smiled weakly at him and stood up. "Sit here and calm down. I'm going to go find out what's going on."

"I humored you, and now I need to go to him."

House stood up, and gripped the counter for a second as the ward swam. He swallowed thickly, telling himself to stop over-reacting, and he limped toward the doors that led into the back of the ER where trauma patients were taken to. Cuddy's hand on his arm startled him, and he raised wide eyes to her.

"Let me get you a cane first, at least."

House shook her hand off of his arm and swept the room with his eyes before he found an elderly man asleep in an ICU bed. A cane was leaning against the table beside the bed, and House snatched it up as he walked by. He heard Cuddy sigh in resignation behind him.

The scene on the other side of the door was something House wasn't prepared to see.

House had to admit that he was far from emotional or _caring_ when it came to anyone or anything. He noticed things – there were few things he didn't pick up on, and usually there was a good reason as to why he didn't notice something (drugs mainly the culprit) – but it was hard to make himself truly _care_.

Except for Wilson, House would never drop everything and rush to aide someone, at least not without bitching about it on the way. Sure, _patients_ were different; they were actually sick by the time they were his patients, and if they needed help, they truly needed it. Usually he bitched anyway as he rushed to help them. He used to run to help them, before he became crippled, but he hobbles along as fast as he can if a patient flat lines.

One thing that he'd never experienced was a patient that he loved flat lining.

As he stood in the middle of the current that was the trauma room, with nurses and doctors pushing him out of the way and yelling back and forth to each other, House realized something.

Watching the person you love die was fucking terrifying.

Cameron held paddles over Wilson's exposed chest and yelled at the nurses and doctors around the bed to clear before she shocked his heart.

House's heart stopped and the air was knocked out of him when his partner continued to flat line.

"No," House whispered, tears stinging his eyes. He moved forward a few steps, and froze when Cameron spoke again.

"Clear!"

_Come on. Beat._

"Nothing," a nurse said, then backed away quickly as Cameron lowered the paddles to Wilson's chest again.

House's stomach clenched and he knew that if Wilson died, he'd embarrass himself by throwing up everywhere.

"Clear!"

_Please James._

House sunk to his knees when he heard Wilson's heart start back up, and hands were on his arms holding him upright when he wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball on the floor and pass out.

"I think he's about to pass out."

House lifted his head to look up at the person who spoke, and he felt himself begin to snap.

"Get. Off. Of. Me."

Chase glanced sideways, and House turned his head to stare at Foreman. They each held one of House's arms, holding him up on his knees. His leg was starting to _really_ hurt.

A loud screeching went off and House's stomach lurched.

"BRING THE CRASH CART BACK!" Cameron yelled, and House threw the hands off his arms and stumbled to his feet. His knee started to lock up from sitting on it on the hard floor, and the Vicodin was definitely starting to wear off.

"House, you need to get out of here," Chase said, rushing in front of House to stop him from moving further.

Cameron shocked Wilson's heart again.

Nothing.

"He's got to be bleeding badly internally," an unknown doctor said from the other side of Cameron. Someone was cutting the side of Wilson's chest to stick a tube in.

_His lungs are collapsing._

"Chase! Scrub in, we need to get him to the OR **now**." Cameron's voice was panicked, and she placed the defibrillator paddles back onto Wilson's chest.

Chase let go of House and ran from the room. House pulled himself free of Foreman's grip and he reached the foot of Wilson's stretcher in two steps. Cameron shocked Wilson's heart again (House thought it was just like Wilson to flat line twice, just for that attention) and when Wilson's heart began beating again, the nurses started forcing oxygen into Wilson's lungs. The tube sticking out under his arm from his chest was dripping blood onto the floor.

House moved around the bed as the staff around him began preparing the equipment for travel. He said, "I need gloves," and held out his hand, staring at Wilson's bruised and swollen face numbly.

"No, House," Cameron said, her hands working quickly with the heart monitor. "You can't help us with anything. Right now, the best you can do is stand back."

House raised his eyes to hers and stared at her blankly. She blinked back in surprise, and he vaguely wondered what his face looked like to make her react that way. _I need to remember it_.

"You're doing everything wrong," he said defensively, and reached behind the stretcher to the box of gloves that was connected on the wall. He pulled out two gloves, barely noticing that they were a size too small, and forced them on his shaking hands.

"House," Foreman said from behind, placing his hands on House's upper arms tightly. "I don't want to have to pull you away. They're ready to go to the OR."

"Get off," House snapped, shrugging his arms back to loosen Foreman's hold. He looked up at the monitors, his stomach knotting at the bad vitals. "He can't survive surgery." He put his hands on Wilson's face gently, brushing back his matted hair, starting to feel detached from the situation.

_This can't be happening._

"He can't survive without it, either," Cameron told him sharply as the nurses started unlocking the wheels on the stretcher. "If you are his proxy, we're going to need consent."

House's hands fell to his sides slowly, the blood on his gloves from Wilson's hair brushing onto his clothes. Foreman pulled him back from the stretcher as it started moving forward.

"House?"

He glanced up and shook his head. "I'm not his proxy. We never. . . " he trailed off and blinked around the room. Cameron nodded to him sympathetically, whispered something to Foreman, then disappeared through the double doors after the stretcher.

_We never decided what would happen in these situations._

"Do you want to go watch the surgery?" Foreman asked, dragging House out of his daze briefly.

"Yes," he answered, hearing the resignation in his own voice. He _hated_ it.

_How dare they not let me help? I'm a doctor, too._

After ripping off the rubber gloves, House picked up the cane he'd discarded on the floor when he had reached for the gloves and took a few steps forward before stopping. His knee locked, pain radiating up and down his leg and hip, and he clenched his jaw tightly.

"What is it?"

Foreman had his hands on House's arm again. A brief thought floated through House's mind about ripping off Foreman's hands if he touched him one more time before he bent over to massage his knee.

"Is your knee locking up? Where's your Vicodin?"

"Home," House muttered, trying desperately to remember the last time he'd taken his pills. Wilson made him cut back on the pain medication intake a while ago, and he was always in moderately severe pain, but this. . . this was because he'd way overused his leg on top of the lack of drugs in the last five hours.

"I'll get you a wheelchair, and take you up to watch Wilson." House didn't even bother to argue; he'd never be able to walk to the OR on his own, and at this point he _needed_ to be there with his partner.

A minute passed before Foreman was back with a wheelchair and a syringe, and he helped House sit down.

"Morphine," he said when House raised his eyebrows. "It's just enough to relax your leg."

"We're going to miss the show," House snapped, and Foreman nodded, pocketing the syringe. Seconds later, House was going through the double doors toward the OR, his heart racing and gut twisting with worry.

* * *

Read? Review! These first few chapters are shortish, sorry. The next one will be twice as long :)


	3. Chapter 3

I own nothing but the plot.

* * *

"Shouldn't they do an MRI or something?" House asked, staring through the glass longingly, watching Chase hastily cut through Wilson's torso.

"No time for that," Foreman answered, glancing at the TV screen above their heads.

House bounced his legs nervously, his hands clasped between his knees. The morphine had taken effect immediately, and while it didn't help with the soreness or general pain he always had, it took the edge off. Foreman was able to bend his knee for him and keep it from locking again.

_I know there's no time for tests. I need to stop being an idiot._

House's heart jumped in his throat when he saw way more blood pooling in Wilson's torso than was normal. _Organs are badly damaged. Oh, God._

"I should get tested. See if any of my organs can go to Wilson. Just in case."

"Your organs are no good with the drug use," Foreman said with a slight snort, and House's legs stilled in anger. He took a steadying breath and began bouncing his legs again, ignoring the words Foreman had said. _It's not worth arguing. He's right._

Minutes into the surgery, Chase looked up at the room House was in for a brief second, and House straightened. Foreman switched on the intercom.

"He's going to lose a kidney," Chase said hurriedly as a nurse connected a bag of blood to Wilson's IV, and hooked it above Wilson's head. _He's lost so much blood_.

Quickly, he raised his cane and pressed the button to speak to Chase. "Don't remove it if you can fix it." House lowered the cane and scratched his forehead, trying desperately to ease his thoughts and concerns. _He doesn't play sports, at least not regularly. His diet is already superb. Losing a kidney isn't going to affect him much._

"I can't fix it." Chase shook his head and turned back to his patient, indicating the conversation was over, at least for him. House hung his head, feeling sick to his stomach.

"House?" Cuddy asked softly from the doorway, and he slowly raised his head to her. Tears blurred his vision and he did his best to blink them back, horrified that he was crying at all. "Do you need me to call his family?"

House nodded slowly. "Make sure they understand he's probably lost the bet he made with me a while back, about whether he'd die before me or not. If he dies, I have no way of collecting my winnings from him, so they'd have to hand it over."

Cuddy sighed as Foreman sharply said, "_House!"_ He lowered his head again, wiped a rogue tear from his cheek, and resumed his leg bouncing. He watched the surgery, itching to go into the OR and help.

Cameron told him on their way up to the observation room that security guards had been placed at the entrance of the OR, so House knew he'd never get in there. She was paged back to the ER almost immediately after House and Foreman had gotten to the room. Part of House wanted her there – she was great at comfort and making him feel like he was at least staying strong and not over-reacting. The logical part of him knew it was better if she weren't there to bother him.

Before Cuddy could say anything more about House's comment, or Wilson's parents, Chase started talking again.

"Right lung is punctured from rib fractures, but nothing fatal. We can't find the source of the bleeding."

House's eyes turned up to the television and he squinted, trying to find something Chase and the other doctors might be missing.

Foreman pressed the intercom. "It wasn't the kidney?" House asked, glancing down into the room nervously. One doctor was removing the damaged kidney.

"No. There's a lot of damage, House."

House closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to grasp the words and force them to make sense. _The driver wasn't going _that_ fast. He didn't hit Wilson directly. Wilson hit the front headlight. He. . . can't die._

"I'm going to call his family. Do you need anything?" Cuddy asked softly, kneeling beside House's chair and placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, shaking his head rigidly. _This isn't happening._

Wilson's heart monitor started beeping loudly, frantic at a sudden rise in heart rate. House sat straight up, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles hurt, as Wilson's heart stopped a third time in less than an hour.

With his chest already open, it took one shock directly to the heart to start it back up, and House slowly started to ease the grip on the chair.

"He's in good hands," Foreman said, trying to be soothing or optimistic. House just turned to him and stared blankly.

"Good hands?" He asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "_He_ is good hands. _I_ am good hands. Chase and these other fuckhead doctors, they aren't good. He's not in good hands with them."

"You wouldn't have had Chase around for so long if you really believed that."

"He was the comic relief to _my_ comic relief. He's a shitty doctor," House snapped, and rose from his chair as smoothly as possible. He picked up his cane and started pacing.

Foreman opened his mouth to argue with, or reassure House, he didn't know which. Just as he started talking, Chase said, "found it!" Both doctors turned to the glass, holding their breaths.

"Ruptured vessels in the liver. Parts are badly damaged. I'll have to remove some of it," Chase said, sounding relieved. House leaned heavily on his cane, watching as the staff worked to stop the bleeding.

He paused, then pressed the intercom button. "The heart?"

"He's lost a ton of blood, and was just hit by a car. The anesthesia was a big risk. The heart is fine. I'm going to close him up in a few minutes and take him up to CT for his head and abdomen scans. There's a lot of bruising and minor tears in the stomach, spleen and pancreas. I have to fix the vessels. It'll take a little while. We'll meet you at radiology."

House hesitated, watching as the surgeons expertly cut away the damaged part of the liver. Another bag of blood was hooked up to Wilson's body. His vitals were improving, even if only a little.

"I'm staying until he's done," House said, glancing over his shoulder at Foreman. "Go tell Cuddy we're moving this field trip down the hall in a few."

"Are you sure –?"

"_Yes_ I'm sure. I can walk just fine now, thanks. Go. I'll wait to start show and tell until after you get there. I wonder if we can keep the kidney. I could use it for all kinds of pranks. I wonder how much the Oncology kids would freak out over those kinds of things." He turned his eyes back to the surgery, his stomach in knots.

All of the times that he himself stopped breathing, or his heart stopped, or any damn time he could've died was nothing compared to this. This was _huge_. But if Wilson felt this way every time House's life was in danger, he owed the guy an apology. "You _idiot_," he said softly, unsure of whether he meant himself or Wilson, but it sounded right nonetheless.

----------**----------

House paced in front of the CT room, waiting for Chase to bring Wilson up from the OR, his mind racing. He'd watched the surgery all the way to the end, and was relieved that Wilson seemed to be better. _At least his heart hadn't stopped, and his vitals stabilized._

Foreman walked down the hall with Cuddy behind him, each carrying a cup of coffee. A second cup was in Foreman's left hand, presumably for House.

"They here yet?" He asked, handing the cup to House. House took it without a word of thanks, not making a move to drink it. The warmth from the cup helped his hand not feel so cold, or shake so much.

"No. The surgery took longer than they thought it would. There were a lot of bleeds."

Cuddy took a seat across from the doors and House turned his attention to her. She gave him a weak smile. "His family is coming down as soon as they can."

"And the bet money . . .?"

She just crossed her arms and gave him a stern _you are being inappropriate_ stare. Then she sighed and said, "when this is done, you have to go downstairs to my office. The police are on their way to take your statement."

"Tell them to shove my statement up their ass," House muttered, turning his attention to the end of the hallway. Chase was leading Wilson's stretcher down the corridor toward him.

House stayed still, waiting for them to come to him. The last thing he wanted was for people to think he was _worried_. In all actuality, House was trying to stall until the last possible moment in seeing Wilson up close again. _This is all my fault._

By the time they were pushing open the doors to the room, House was torn between running to his office – or Cuddy's, to talk to the police – and staying here to watch the tests. Wilson _was_ in good hands, and House had people waiting on him, and. . . all thoughts stopped when he looked at Wilson's face.

"Is he still asleep?" House demanded, moving forward toward the stretcher. A nurse looked up at him, startled. "The general should have worn off by now."

"He's had a head injury, House," Chase answered calmly, pushing the stretcher into the room. "He'll probably be unconscious for a while still."

"If he slips into a coma, I'm going to be _so pissed_," House said roughly, and cleared his throat quickly. He followed the group inside, and watched helplessly as Wilson's still body was moved onto the CT bed.

Foreman nudged House gently from behind, and House moved forward to the room with Chase, to watch the results as they came up. His stomach was in knots and he took a sip from his coffee, hoping to ease his nervousness.

As the test started, House fell into doctor-mode and leaned forward to study the images of Wilson's brain.

"He's bleeding," he whispered, his throat swelling shut at the words.

"Coup injury. Bruising right here from the impact on the car," Chase said, pointing along the frontal lobe of Wilson's brain. "I'm not sure it's too life-threatening though."

"Diffuse Axonal Injury," House said softly, shaking his head, disagreeing with Chase's diagnosis. "If he's in a coma, it's DAI, and he'll never wake up."

"If he's _not_ in a coma and just pumped so full of drugs that _any_ normal person would be passed out for days, then it's Coup. _Or_. . " Chase leaned forward, his words trailing off. He clicked the mouse a few times before glancing sideways at House with a brief smile. "Focal contusion. See there? He may have some permanent damage, as his frontal lobe is swollen and bruising, but he'll survive. He has a hairline fracture here and here, but they will heal easily. It's no worse than the one you got in the bus crash." House grimaced at the memory.

"We should relieve the pressure in his head," House said, eyeing the screen skeptically; diagnosing his patients was _never_ this easy. _He's not my patient_.

"We'll check his head again in a few hours to see if it's getting worse, but it doesn't look like something that needs to be relieved. Thank God it's not DAI, or that he's not brain dead."

House turned his attention to Chase and narrowed his eyes. "It's not God who –"

"Sure it isn't," Chase said, cutting House's words off before he could get started. "Look at your boyfriend. _He was hit by a car_. A car that was going _fast_. You can't tell me that this is nothing short of a miracle, House."

"It's not God's work. It's because he was standing so close to me when it happened," House explained, lowering his right hand to his thigh and absently massaging the sore muscles.

"Oh, right," Chase said, throwing his hands in the air in mock indignation. "I forget. _You_ are God reincarnate. You are the reason for the good and the bad."

"Don't forget it, either. Every time you see something good happen in this hospital, you'll know it was my doing. Actually, I deserve a few weeks off for this miracle," House waved his hand toward Wilson's unconscious body. Chase was clicking through the images on the screen, moving from Wilson's brain to his face. "And you need to back me up on this when Cuddy argues my authenticity. You are my witness."

Chase nodded briefly before saying, "he has a broken nose, and his right cheek is damaged. He's going to need plastic surgery for this. Is Taub in today? Maybe he'll like a go at this."

"'A go'? What the hell does _that_ mean?" House asked incredulously. "He's not some ragdoll for all of you to have 'a go' at. That's _my_ job."

"Do you want to do the surgery? Fine. Either way, he needs it." Chase clicked through the images and sat back from the screen, taking in the pictures of Wilson's neck. House pursed his lips and gave his full attention to the images. After a moment, Chase said, "well, no broken neck, but it's sprained."

The memory of Wilson's body hitting the car flashed through House's mind, and he had to admit it _was_ a good thing that he hadn't been more severely injured.

They remained silent for the next few minutes, checking and double checking Wilson's remaining organs. House was relieved to see that Chase had done a good job in repairing the most serious and life-threatening injuries; there should only be bruises and soreness for a few weeks now.

"His pelvis is good," Chase observed as they moved lower down Wilson's body. "He's extremely lucky that it didn't break. Normally, it would. Perhaps the air surrounding you _is_ blessed."

"The car was small and hit him on his thighs." House scratched his head and waited for the last of Wilson's body to appear on the screen.

As he expected, Wilson's right knee was badly broken. The left leg looked fine, aside from the sprains in his knee and ankle, but it wouldn't kill him.

"So much for my dreams of piggy back marathons," House said dejectedly, then raised his eyes to the machine as Wilson's body came back into view. He hadn't moved at all, which was concerning him more with each passing minute.

"He'll wake up," Chase assured him, as if reading his thoughts, and stood up from his chair. "I'll need to take him back into surgery to repair the knee before it causes any damage to the foot. Are you going to be there?"

"I'll be watching. Call Taub and tell him God has a job for him."

Chase shook his head with a small smirk and left the glass room. House stayed sitting, rubbing his sore leg with a grimace, watching the nurses and Foreman come into the room to move Wilson back onto his stretcher.

House couldn't help but think it was his fault. If he'd stayed inside the apartment, if he hadn't insisted on Wilson waiting for him. . . if Wilson _hadn't_ waited, House would probably be on that stretcher. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to switch spots with him. God knew he deserved it.

----------**----------

House paced in Cuddy's office five minutes later, waiting impatiently for the police to enter the room. They were speaking with Cameron – probably about the extent of Wilson's injuries – and said they'd be in briefly. For a moment, House wondered if the man from the other car was at this hospital. Nobody would tell him if he was, of course; House's behavior was just too unpredictable.

After an eternity, the police came into the office with apologies.

"I have places to be, you know," House snapped as he reached out for the clipboard one officer was holding out for him. "This is a hospital and people are dying."

"We're sorry," the second officer said calmly. "We just need a statement about what happened exactly. We took down statements at the scene from the witnesses."

"And? Did Dale Earnhardt get cited?" House asked, grabbing a pen off of Cuddy's desk and moving to the couch to sit down. He put the clipboard on his knees.

"Yes. We're going to set a court date when we find out when Dr. Wilson can make it. Dr. Cameron said he is still getting tests?"

House wondered why the man made it a question, and he shrugged his shoulders in response. He wrote down his name and then hesitated before writing what he remembered. The images and memory flashed through his mind, and he suddenly felt so tired. _Oh, God, this is really happening. Wilson is down the hall, prepping for another surgery, and I'm here doing this shit._

"He'll pay for this, right?" House asked, raising his eyes to the police officers slowly.

"Well, his insurance –"

"I don't care about the bills. How much jail time are we looking at?"

The older police officer, who had handed the clipboard to House when they arrived, glanced at his partner questioningly. He was the younger of the two, but at least 30, with curly brown hair and blue eyes. The other officer was House's age, with graying hair and sharp green eyes. He shrugged.

"It depends on whether this turns out to be reckless driving, or vehicular manslaughter. We just arrest and detain; the court will decide his punishment."

House nodded, not trusting his voice. _It depends on whether Wilson dies or not._ Fury bubbled inside him as he thought about the man getting off with a slap on the wrist for reckless driving while Wilson spends the rest of his natural life in every kind of therapy. _He'll probably never come back to work as a doctor._

The thought killed something inside House, and as he frantically wrote out the incidents as he remembered them he promised himself that it wouldn't end like that. And _if_ Wilson lost his ability to work – his frontal lobe was damaged, there was a chance he'd never make it back as the James Wilson he knew – House wanted the driver of that car to pay for every excruciating minute Wilson will struggle through for the rest of his life.

After handing the clipboard to the officers, House snatched up his cane and – after smirking to himself about the irony of brandishing his stolen cane in front of the police – he fixed the officers with his most serious, pleading expression. Rage ran through his blood internally as he spoke, his words calm and collected.

"I want to press charges on the driver. As many as you can pin on him. Wilson may lose his entire career over this, along with brain and personality damage. Reckless driving isn't nearly as harsh a punishment as he deserves."

The officer nodded sympathetically, and the older one said, "we're going to be doing the best we can. That's all I can offer."

"Make sure it's the best," House told him, searching his eyes briefly before stepping around the cops. He didn't know what else to say, so he left.

Cameron stood near the nurse's station, apparently waiting for him. As she opened his mouth, he fixed her with an angry stare and said, "_do not_ talk to me," before storming off toward the elevator.

* * *

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	4. Chapter 4

I own nothing but the plot.

This is a slash, but it's not graphic. It's an established relationship fic.

* * *

Hours passed after Wilson's final surgery, and House barely left his room for more than a few minutes at a time. He made stops at the restroom, coffee machine, his own office, even Wilson's office out of habit than anything else.

At one point, he realized there was blood on his pants and shirt from the accident, and he didn't know why he hadn't noticed it before. He found sweatpants in Wilson's locker and had managed to get a clean shirt from Kutner.

Wilson's surgery had proven to be successful, or at least Taub and Chase had said it had. House didn't remember much about it; his mind kept wandering to different scenarios where he ripped the balls off of the driver in various creative ways.

Cuddy had stopped by briefly after House paged her ("911", and she _screeched_ into the ICU room Wilson was occupying). He had to swallow his pride and ask her for a prescription of Vicodin.

"Didn't you just get one yesterday? How many are you taking? Are you going back to your old habits?" She had demanded, furious that House had made her believe Wilson was dying with the urgent page.

"I left it at home," House answered stiffly, standing awkwardly to relieve pressure on his bad leg. It had been six hours since his morphine shot, and if he wanted _any_ sleep tonight, he needed something more.

Cuddy's anger dissipated at House's words and tone, and she nodded, glancing at Wilson. She inhaled slowly, tears springing into her eyes at the sight of him. "Okay House. Don't overdo it because Wilson can't stop you, though."

"_Damn_," House said, snapping his fingers indignantly. Internally, he fumed. _ Of course I won't overdo it. I know how disappointed he'd be if he found out I went back to old habits immediately._ The fact that Cuddy felt like she had to say anything at all to House infuriated him. "If you don't want to write me the script, _then don't_. But _don't you dare_ stand there and patronize me."

Cuddy opened and closed her mouth twice before she could say anything back. She looked confused and offended before she nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just know that this must be really hard on you, and –"

"_You don't know_," House sneered, taking a single step toward his boss. "Just because he's here and hurt doesn't mean that I'm going to turn into some murderous fucking sociopath now that my leash and handcuffs are gone."

The words surprised House as much as they did Cuddy, and he closed his eyes to block out the look of bewilderment on her face. Shame coursed through his body and he started to feel how tired he really was. He raised his arm up and risked a glance at his watch. It was almost six, which meant Wilson's parents would be here at any time. It'd been over seven hours since the accident.

Cuddy wrapped her arms around House's waist, and hugged him tightly. He stood rigidly, unwilling to hug her back. He knew that if he gave in right now and hugged her, he'd break down and sob until he threw up, and that was the absolute _last_ thing he wanted to do right now.

"I'm so sorry, Greg. So, so sorry," she whispered into his chest, gripping him tighter. She was too short to hold him much higher, and it made him feel awkward as he tried to pat her back to tell her it was okay.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. It was a freak accident," he said hollowly, not believing his own words. Cuddy nodded against his chest and pulled back, her mascara smudged below her eyes from a few tears she'd failed to hold in.

"He'll pull out of this just fine," Cuddy assured him. House remembered a time, a few years back, when Wilson had told him he was a reality junkie, and that everyone else would lie to make someone feel better by saying, "it will be okay".

And House had said, "things can go terribly wrong."

Cuddy frowned at House, and he realized he spoken aloud. He gave her a half-hearted shrug and said, "well, they can. No point in trying to sugar coat it. He's got some brain damage. We just won't know how bad it is until he wakes up."

"I think you should talk to someone. We have excellent therapists in this hospital. You. . ." she trailed off, and House waited for her to find the words she wanted to say. The last thing he wanted to do was see a shrink. "You aren't handling this well."

House laughed bitterly, shaking his head while he stepped back away from her. He turned and headed toward the window to stare out at the dark parking lot below him.

"Because I'm not bawling and freaking out like _you_ would be doing, I'm not handling this well?" House asked, pressing his forehead against the cool window. Cuddy started to say something, and he cut her off. "Cuddy, my leg is going to lock up again if I don't get some kind of relief."

"Fine," she sighed and left the room quickly, her heels clapping noisily down the hall as she all but ran to the pharmacy for him. _Well, that's one positive to this situation. Cuddy falling over herself to do me favors._

With a quiet sigh, House moved to sit beside Wilson's bed. Maybe Cuddy was right, at least partially – he wasn't handling all of this as well as he _could_. He barely sat by Wilson's side the last three hours, too afraid of seeing his partner's broken body for too long.

Wilson's neck was secure in one of the best neck braces the hospital carried. His blanket was pulled up to his chest, and aside from the hospital underwear he had on, he had no other clothes on. Too many injuries and bandages and tubes coming out of his body made it impossible to dress him appropriately.

_He's going to get too cold_ House thought, and reached over to gently tuck the sides of the sheet and blanket under Wilson's back. He did the same to the side closest to him, taking extra care not to jostle the sleeping man. Of all his years dealing with brain damaged and severely injured patients, this was the first time he'd genuinely wondered if the patient was in pain, too cold, or something else that he can't guess.

His hand found Wilson's, and he laced their fingers together, careful not to pull out his IVs. The heart monitor continued to beep at a steady pace, and for some reason it made House chuckle.

"I guess my touch doesn't make your pulse race anymore," he said softly to Wilson, raising his right hand to Wilson's face. He hesitated a moment before running the back of his knuckles down his bruised cheek.

Wilson's nose was bandaged after Taub had surgically set it. A small bandage was placed over the stitches on Wilson's other cheek; Taub said they might have to go back in and fix it with metal plates. The only reason he didn't do it today was in case they had to do an MRI.

Dark bruises covered Wilson's eyelids and forehead, and House was glad that they'd bandaged his head after stitching up his bleeding scalp during the first surgery. It was bad enough seeing what wasn't under bandages.

House leaned forward and pressed his lips to Wilson's ear and whispered, "I'm waiting for you, Jimmy," and placed a tender kiss on Wilson's temple before pulling away. He felt silly, talking to Wilson when he was obviously not there, but it seemed like the right thing to do. Even though he didn't remember it, when he was in a coma and Cuddy stayed with him, it'd been a comfort to know that she had whispered to him.

Looking up at the door, House was embarrassed to see Cuddy standing in the doorway with a bottle of Vicodin in one hand, and a bottle of water in another. She gave him a warm smile, which told him she'd seen his display of affection, and he did his best to shrug it off.

"He only gets one," House explained, forcing himself to his feet. His leg burned and his knee locked, and he gripped the foot of Wilson's bed for support.

"What's wrong?" Cuddy lurched forward, putting the bottle of water and the pills on the mattress by Wilson's feet and placing a hand on House's back.

"I told you, I ran today. My knee. . ." he trailed off and forced his knee to bend, groaning in pain softly. "It's nothing."

"I'll get you ice. Sit down, take some Vicodin, and relax. Maybe try to get a nap in. Do you need dinner?" Cuddy moved to the door again, and hesitated, waiting for his answer.

"Not unless you're on the menu," he said, aware that the response was lame but the best he could manage with the muscles in his leg cramping and burning. Cuddy shook her head and left. House grimaced and downed three pills, knowing damn well it was one more than he ever takes now, and only feeling slightly guilty at the thought that Wilson would be disappointed if he knew.

----------**----------

"What did you do to your knee?"

House raised his head from inspecting his swollen knee and gave Thirteen a steady, blank stare. She shifted uneasily, glancing from House to Wilson, gripping a folder in her hands.

"Sympathy pains," House said, unrolling his pant leg down his leg. He raised his eyebrows at the folder. "New case?"

"Yeah." She stepped forward cautiously, holding the file to House. "You should have your knee looked at if it's swollen like that."

House snorted softly, opening the file on his lap. "I fell on it after I ran a few feet. It's not even bruised. My pride is hurt more than anything." He skimmed the top page in the folder. "This case is _boring_. It's obviously an infection."

"Cuddy wanted to keep us busy. Kutner and Taub wanted to know how you were doing and they sent me in here to find out."

"Make sure to tell them that I'm on a rampage and if they come in here they'll never escape. And if they _do_ come in here, I'd like a burger and fries. A strawberry shake, too."

Thirteen tilted her head in thought, eyeing House curiously, before nodding. "Any ideas on the patient?"

House glanced over at Wilson and shrugged. "He's in a coma."

"Not _that_ patient," she said, rolling her eyes and taking the folder from his hands. "I meant ours. And. . . is he really in a coma?"

"Find out," he said, sweeping his hands toward Wilson's still body. She hesitated and gave him a confused expression. "Nobody's _tried_ to wake him up. He'll be getting another CT soon, so they'll be waking him up in an hour or two anyway. Go ahead."

"I'm not going to treat him like –"

"Like _what?_ A guy in a coma? A _patient_? Oh, it's finally happened. Doctors aren't treating patients now? Give me your penlight, then."

"House, it's _Wilson_."

House grabbed the penlight out of Thirteen's hand and moved beside Wilson's bed. He picked up Wilson's hand, prepared to break Wilson's finger to wake him up if need be, and his heart jumped to his throat when Wilson's fingers curled ever so slightly.

"Get Foreman," House said to Thirteen, forcing himself forward. He dropped the penlight and gripped Wilson's hand in his. "Squeeze my hand."

Wilson's fingers moved again, closing around House's hand, and House sighed in relief. He raised the hand to his lips, brushed a quick kiss across his knuckles, and smiled.

"Can you open your eyes?" He asked, forcing his voice to be firm; otherwise, he'd start bawling. Wilson's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. "It's okay if you can't."

Foreman rushed into the room, tailed by Thirteen, Taub and Kutner. House looked at the latter two and said, "you guys have a task for me. Thirteen, fill them in on my nourishment situation."

Taking the obvious hint, the three doctors left, dragging their feet and glancing over their shoulders every few seconds. Foreman reached the bed and pulled out his own penlight and started flashing Wilson's eyes. Wilson raised a weak hand to bat him away, then dropped it back to the bed.

"Excellent," Foreman said, placing two fingers in Wilson's hand. "Squeeze my fingers, Wilson." Wilson's hand closed around Foreman's fingers, but didn't squeeze. "He's okay," he told House, then turned back to Wilson. "Don't try to talk, you've been intubated. Blink if you know where you are."

Wilson's eyelids fluttered again before opening painfully slow. His bruised and swollen eyes only permitted his eyes to open slightly, but it was enough for House. Wilson blinked, acknowledging where he was, before moving his eyes to the left.

"I'm here," House said, moving into Wilson's line of sight. He touched Wilson's cheek gently before pulling his hand back. "It was really stupid of you to try and jump twenty busses on a tricycle."

Foreman excused himself quietly with a stern, "let him rest, House. He's going up to CT again soon, now that he's conscious."

House placed his hand on Wilson's bruised forehead, leaning forward so Wilson didn't have to struggle to see him. His eyes were moving back and forth, taking in the room in a slight panic. House made shushing noises, brushing his fingers along his forehead calmingly.

"You were in an accident earlier today. You've had two surgeries to repair the damages, but now that you're awake, you should be fine. I know it sucks waking up to me," House said jokingly, and chuckled when Wilson tried to roll his eyes. "Your parents will be here anytime. Get some rest."

Wilson's eyes closed immediately, and House reached over to the IV machine to adjust the morphine level to make him more comfortable. After a minute, Wilson's body relaxed completely and House knew he'd fallen asleep.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was after seven, and he wondered briefly when Wilson's parents would arrive. His plan was to not be here at all when they got to the hospital; they didn't know about their son's relationship, and now certainly wasn't the time to spill the beans on it.

Cuddy had once said, "of _course_ they know. A parent knows their kid, and anyone can tell just by looking at you two that there's something going on. You have this _adorable_ smile when he comes into the room, and more than once I've seen you both blush and share secretive looks. They know, just like everyone else in this hospital knows."

House smirked at the memory. He hadn't ever _told_ anyone about his relationship with Wilson, and nobody had outright asked him. Oh, they asked Wilson in private, but the bottom line was _they knew_. House rarely showed affection in the workplace, mainly because he enjoyed their time in private and didn't want to share it with everyone around. Plus, keeping affection out of the workplace kept his _work_ relationship with Wilson very separate from their personal relationship.

Too many fights had occurred before or after work over the years between them, but they were able to function at work by keeping every fight and mean thing said at home.

The only times House was ever affectionate at work was when he was _trying_ to make someone on his team or the hospital staff uncomfortable, or times like these when one of them was sick or injured. Granted, the last time one of them had been in a hospital bed with IVs and monitors had been when House accidentally overdosed on his Vicodin a year ago.

That was when Wilson decided to step in and help control the addiction. They both knew he'd never be able to kick the pills completely, so the best they could do was monitor how many he took.

"I'm sorry," House said softly to Wilson's sleeping body, lacing his fingers through Wilson's and idly playing with the IV tubing with his other hand. He wasn't quite sure why he was apologizing, but it was the first time in a while he spoke the words and meant them.

----------**----------

House put his head in his hands and rested his elbows on top of the table. The cafeteria was closing, but they reluctantly agreed to let him stay to eat his dinner in peace. Cuddy made some phone calls to insure he could stay.

Security stood at the entrance to make sure he didn't steal or break anything inside, which was disappointing because he _badly_ wanted a napkin dispenser.

"Hey," Cameron said softly, and House peeked at her through his fingers. She slid into the chair across from him and smiled. "I hear he woke up. That's great."

"I can't get him to shut up, which is why I'm here," he told her, lowering his hands to the table. He picked up a cold French fry – Kutner picked up food an hour ago, and he was just not hungry enough to eat – and threw it at Cameron's chest. She brushed it away without so much as an eye roll.

"Howcome you're not up there with him?"

House's mouth twisted in a slight grimace. "The Wilson family has arrived."

"So?"

He met her eyes with an indignant expression. "I don't get along with people. They're nice enough, and I guess they like me. It's just not an appropriate time to be there."

"That's nice of you, giving them time with him alone," she said gently, encouraging his. . .what? Niceness?

"Wilson never told them," House said with a shrug, forcing himself to eat a fry. When Cameron gave him a confused look, he clarified with, "_about us_."

"Really." She pursed her lips, thinking for a moment before she went on. "Why didn't he tell them? Are they _phobic_?"

House snorted and took a sip of his mostly melted shake and eyed her, contemplating. He _hated_ when the subject of his relationship came up, though he knew he shouldn't have spilled that secret to her. "Oh, _totally_. They would much prefer he continue marrying stupid wives than to see him happy. And they have one mentally ill son; I'm sure a second one wouldn't be surprising."

Cameron smiled brightly at that and said, "you said he's happy. With you."

"I make him laugh," House said, an idea forming in his mind. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You should see what I do to him in the bedroom. _Anyone_ would be happy if they were licked and –"

"Too much," she said hurriedly, holding her hands up in defeat. "I went too far into your personal life. I get it." She frowned at him, then shook her head. "Thanks for that."

"I have pictures."

"No," she said firmly, then pulled up her sleeve to check her watch. "Have you gotten flowers for him yet? I was going to bring some in tomorrow, I can pick some up for you."

"Do I look like a flower giving kinda guy?"

She nodded. "Definitely. You're a rose petals in the bathwater and bed kind of boyfriend. And you probably give," she tilted her head again, debating. "lilies and irises on special occasions."

House stared at her in disbelief before muttering, "damn Wilson for ratting me out."

"I think it's extremely –"

"-gay?"

"_Cute_. _Adorable_. _Romantic_."

"Oh, of course."

They sat in silence for a few minutes after that, and just as House was going to tell Cameron to get lost, his pager went off. He swallowed the hamburger he was eating and checked the screen.

"Wilson's coding," he said, jumping to his feet and all but ran from the cafeteria toward the ICU.

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	5. Chapter 5

I don't own anything but the plot. This IS slash.

* * *

By the time House came to a stop in Wilson's room, the emergency was over. Foreman stood above the hospital bed and was talking quietly with Wilson's parents; Abby was in tears and Samuel was dutifully holding his wife.

The three of them looked up when he threw the door open, and House's eyes fell immediately on Wilson. His eyes were closed and his chest was rising and falling slowly; he was very much asleep.

"He started seizing. We're going to take him up for a CT," Foreman said as House walked up beside the bed.

House stared at Wilson, his heart aching, wanting nothing more than to reach down and hold his hand. One glance at Wilson's parents told him not to do it; they might not be upset over it, but their son almost died today, and could still be dying.

_One bombshell at a time,_ he told himself.

Instead of holding him, House nodded and swallowed back the lump in his throat. "That's all we can do, then."

"There's a good chance there's bleeding that's putting pressure on his brain," Foreman continued, glancing from House to Wilson's parents. "If it's a subdural hematoma, we either missed it on the CT, or it started developing the last hour or two."

House clenched his jaw angrily and took a steadying breath – he didn't want to be _rude_ in front of his boyfriend's parents – before speaking to Foreman. "If we'd taken him in hours ago for his second CT, we would have prevented this."

"There was a line, and more urgent patients ahead of us," Foreman said calmly, smiling reassuringly at the parents.

House stared blankly at Foreman, internally struggling with the desire to lash out completely at the man, but to keep calm in front of Wilson's parents. After a moment of silence, House said, "I get it. You made the Jew wait for the test. That was...a bit hypocritical of you, wouldn't you say?"

"There was no reason for us to think he was having more problems." Foreman gave House a look that said _do you really want to have this conversation in front of them?_

Wilson's father spoke up, forcing their attention to his questions. "Does this mean he's going to die?" Samuel met House and Foreman's eyes nervously.

"No," Foreman and House said together, and when Foreman glanced sideways at him, House raised his hands in an 'I give up' gesture. Foreman looked back at the parents.

"It just means there's some bleeding that can be easily taken care of. There's a _small_ chance that it's a large bleed, which has a 50% death rate. We're going to head down to CT now. House, why don't you and Mr. and Mrs. Wilson get some coffee and hang tight here until we're done?"

House clenched his fist and narrowed his eyes at Foreman, deciding that this conversation was far from over.

House opened his mouth to argue, but Mrs. Wilson stood up and said, "I would love to talk with you, Greg." Abby smiled encouragingly.

"I should be with Foreman and Wilson," House said firmly, inching toward the door, hoping to make his escape smoothly.

"Taub and I can handle it," Foreman said calmly, and House glared at him.

His body hurt with the need to be there with Wilson, and to touch his hands and face, to comfort himself _and_ Wilson. Foreman was deliberately stopping House from being there for his partner, and it infuriated and confused him.

"Show us where the coffee is," Mr. Wilson told House, and House gripped his cane angrily. He nodded in defeat, turned to Wilson's unconscious body, and allowed himself a small touch on his hand.

"Page me if _anything_ happens," House hissed under his breath to Foreman, and whacked Foreman on the shins with his cane when Wilson's parents were walking out the door. "It's on now, Foreman."

"It's always on, House."

"Screw you."

"Wilson won't be out of commission that long."

"You'd better hope not. I get nasty when I don't get any for a few days," House snapped, then left the room to meet the parents in the hallway. He smiled at them, forcing it to look pleasant and confident; inside he was fuming and scared. _I need to be there with him. _"Right this way," he said, and they started walking toward the nearest coffee machine.

After they got back to the empty hospital room – Wilson's parents had paid for his coffee, which made House chuckle softly (he could _always_ get a Wilson to pay for his things) – they sat together where Wilson's bed had been.

"Here, take my chair," Samuel offered, moving to stand beside his wife.

House shook his head. "No, thanks. You can keep it."

"James says your leg pain is getting worse," Abby said, gesturing to the chair. "Sit down. It's not a problem."

House studied the couple for a moment before nodding and moving the chair around so he faced them. He sat down and placed his cane on the floor, and sat forward with his forearms on the tops of his knees.

"Can you tell us what exactly happened?"

House sighed quietly at Mrs. Wilson's question, and scratched his forehead for a second before nodding. He took a sip of his hot coffee as he tried to decide what exactly to tell them.

"We were walking across the street – in a crosswalk – and, well, the guy that hit him blew his red light and turned into Wil – James."

"Was it bad?" She asked, tears spilling onto her cheeks as she reached over to grip House's forearm. His pulse sped up. _I am not good at this comfort thing. She needs to let go_, he thought bitterly.

"It could have been worse," he answered honestly, trying not to imagine where they would be right now if the driver had been going five miles per hour faster.

House gently extracted his arm from her grip and sipped on his hot coffee. His mind kept wandering to what was going on in the CT room, and he nervously bounced his good leg. If his cane wasn't on the floor beside his chair, he'd probably be swinging that around.

"Is there going to be any long-lasting pain or damage?"

House raised his eyes to Wilson's dad and gave him a half-shrug. "I'm not sure yet. He could have problems with his knee for the rest of his life if it doesn't heal right."

"What about his brain?"

"That's..." House trailed off and realized he was trying to spare their feelings, while he struggled to tell them _just_ enough to feel better. "We don't know yet. It's possible he'll suffer long-term brain damage. His frontal lobe was damaged in the accident."

Mrs. Wilson cried softly and House grimaced. Closing his eyes, he counted slowly to himself, trying to gather his own emotions. This wasn't a therapy session where they sit in a semi-circle and cry. It was exactly what it appeared to be: a doctor (albeit the _boyfriend_ of their son) was telling parents the extent of the damage their child has.

"Regardless of the extent of his injuries," House continued, opening his eyes to make eye contact with Wilson's parents, making sure they grasped what he was about to say. "He is _still_ James Wilson, and he is going to be okay."

He _hated_ giving them false hope. In fact, he almost took it back and told them it was a lie. But when he opened his mouth, he couldn't. That comforting lie was what Wilson swore House would never give, and House could tell by looking at his partner's parents that they needed a lie more than the truth.

Besides, he wouldn't be at fault if Wilson got worse. He was only a friend right now, not Wilson's doctor.

There was idle talk for a short time after that. The Wilson's politely asked after House's work and life, and he kindly returned the questions.

Until Mrs. Wilson asked, "How long have you and James been together now?" House had been relaxing and not _as_ annoyed by being left behind until that moment. He tensed, staring at them blankly, mind racing.

Silence blanketed them as his sort of in-laws stared at him with tight smiles. He wasn't quite sure if they were _angry_ or just worried about their son.

_A little of both, most likely_. The thought made him smirk to himself quickly before forcing his face smooth.

"He's been staying at my place for a few months until this economy straightens up a little and he can buy a house," he said calmly, trying to piece together a believable lie. House suddenly felt uncomfortable, and his hands started fidgeting in his lap while he bounced his leg.

_Vicodin. I need to take another one_.

"Gosh, it has to be going on, what? Three years? Four?" Abby asked, her eyes shining in amusement. House cleared his throat and shrugged uncomfortably. "I could have sworn it was longer, though."

House grimaced. "I don't know what –"

"_Why_ are you denying it?" Abby raised her eyebrows curiously. She glanced at her husband, and House saw the confusion passed between them.

"I don't know," House muttered, scratching his forehead. He flinched when Samuel put a hand on House's shoulder.

"He told us about you two years ago," Samuel offered, and House's head snapped up in surprise. Mr. Wilson smiled slightly. "You were always the best thing in his life."

House shook his head, his mind racing. _Wilson _told_ them? After we agreed not to?_ It didn't make sense to him, and he had to admit it pissed him off a little.

But...his parents had accepted it. And they were _smiling _about it.

"Don't be embarrassed," Abby said softly, and House raised his eyes to hers. He shook his head slightly, denying her words. "I'm not embarrassed," she continued, smiling at him in such a motherly way that House started relaxing. "You make my boy happy. I may not have grandchildren from you two, but it's worth that sacrifice to see him with someone he truly loves."

"Thanks," he murmured, unsure of what else to say to that. He was surprisingly relaxed under the gaze of Wilson's parents.

After glancing at his watch, he reached into his pocket to pull out his Vicodin – he'd tensed so much _both_ of his legs were hurting now – and startled himself when his phone started vibrating, then ringing. He glanced up at Wilson's parents to say, "it's Foreman", before answering.

"He's got a subdural hematoma. We're going to drain it – it's not that bad yet," Foreman said quickly after House answered. "It wasn't in the CT from earlier."

"Where is it?" House asked, standing up with his cane. He started pacing, ignoring the other two people in the room as his mind raced.

"Frontal lobe," Foreman answered, then said something inaudible to someone near him. A second later he started speaking to House again. "Anyway, don't bring his parents to the OR. It's not something they should see. We're just going to drain it and we'll be back up."

"I'm scrubbing in," House said firmly, and as Foreman started to protest he said, "I won't try to shove my way into the procedure. I'm just going to overlook everything."

"Fine."

House hung up and looked up at Wilson's parents, who were watching him in concern. He pocketed his phone and pulled out his Vicodin, and said, "he's got a subdural hematoma in his frontal lobe. I'm going down there to help drain the blood. He should be fine."

"What does that mean?" Abby asked, wiping away fresh tears. Her husband put his hand on her shoulder in comfort. House wondered for a second if the woman would ever dry up.

"There's some bleeding, which _probably_ caused the seizure. After we drain it, there shouldn't be any more seizures, and he'll start recovering normally."

House stood from his chair while he swallowed a pill and picked up his cane. He glanced at the Wilson's, nodded to them to make sure they understood, then left the room as quickly as he could. His stomach hurt with worry.

----------**----------

House split his attention in three main directions: Wilson's body, Wilson's stats, and Wilson's head. Wilson's body consisted of everything that did not include the head: his feet, his torso, his hands. House kept his hands wrapped around one of Wilson's, refusing to let go even if he went into cardiac arrest and the defibrillator was brought out.

"It'd be one hell of a party at that point," House said defiantly when Chase asked what would happen if he got shocked, too.

Wilson's stats remained the same throughout the entire procedure, and despite there being people in the room primarily to watch Wilson's vitals, House took it upon himself to watch, too. His opinion was the one that mattered here – not anyone else's.

Wilson's head was something House couldn't bear to watch for too long. Granted, he was a doctor, this was nothing new to him, worse procedures than this had been done to him – when he was awake, too! – and Wilson stood by and watched, undaunted.

_That was so much different_, House thought sadly, _Amber's life was on the line._

Squeezing Wilson's limp hand in his, he let his eyes move from Wilson's head – he couldn't watch them drill into his partner's head, as cowardly as he knew it was – to Wilson's hand inside his own.

_You could have died today_, he thought, running his fingers over Wilson's lightly. _I could have lost you forever._ The thought crushed him, and he closed his eyes against the bright room. _I need you_.

Abruptly, he opened his eyes and looked down at his hands, realizing he wasn't alone in the room, and dropped Wilson's hand onto the table. He had been rubbing Wilson's ring finger, and silently he hoped nobody had noticed. The _last_ thing he needed was rumors to sprout up that Wilson has – or had, maybe he lost it? – a ring.

_He certainly does not_.

"House?"

House raised his eyes to Chase quickly, glad for the disruption.

"We're leaving the drain in for a few days in case he develops another hematoma. The current bleed has been taken care of. We'll be ready to leave in a minute."

House touched Wilson's hand briefly before standing up.

"I'm going home, now that he's okay. I need some sleep in a real bed. His parents will probably stay with him. They'll light a menorah or something to cast away all the bad spirits, or whatever those things are for," House said sarcastically with a nod, as if agreeing with himself. He hesitated at the doors before leaving the OR, and turned back to Foreman and Chase. "Page me if anything happens," he said, and kicked himself internally; he wanted to _thank_ them.

"Have a good night, House," Chase said with a casual nod before turning back to his work, taping the drain in place.

With that, House left the OR, unsure of whether he'd really go home or not.

* * *

Sorry it took so long to post this :( My son and I were super sick with the flu this week. I promise I'll try to get the next chapter up faster.

Those of you who left me reviews on the last chapter..THANK YOU! I tried to reply to each of you personally, but with the flu, school and a sick toddler, I fell behind. YOU GUYS ROCK.


	6. Chapter 6

I own nothing but the plot. Many thanks goes out to my great beta, lilmissmimi :)

* * *

With his right arm wrapped around Wilson's waist – though House had a habit of calling him Jimmy or James at home, _especially_ when they were in bed – House snuggled into his pillow and closed his eyes with a soft sigh.

"Are you falling asleep?" Wilson asked quietly, lifting his right arm up above his head so House could move closer to him. After a moment of adjusting and getting comfortable again, Wilson lowered his arm so that it was lying on House's body. His fingers started playing idly along House's bare upper arm.

"No," House answered, stifling a yawn behind his hand. He closed his eyes and relished in the feel of Wilson's shirt and body under his cheek. The TV was on across from them, and when House opened his eyes, he was disappointed to see one of Wilson's shows starting. "I hate this show."

"Oh, you _love_ this show. You love this show for a number of reasons. That exterminator is _smokin_, for one."

"He's a cross between Tommy Lee and a heroin junkie," House grumbled, and moved his head so he was looking up at Wilson's face. Wilson was watching the TV raptly. "Jimmy, we can do _anything_ right now, and you want to watch The Exterminators?"

Wilson squeezed House's upper arm for a second before his fingers started trailing up and down his skin again. "I had a really long day."

House snorted. "I was at work _all night_ last night, _and_ I spent all day at the clinic when I wasn't dealing with another patient. _I've_ had a long day." House winced as he forced himself to a sitting position, his leg protesting. He leaned forward until his lips were a breath away from Wilson's, and he stared deeply into Wilson's eyes. "James, come to bed."

"I'm in bed. Move," Wilson said, closing the space between them and placing a quick kiss on House's lips. He put his hands on House's upper arms and moved him aside before lowering his feet onto the floor. "Do you want anything from the kitchen?"

"A hooker," House said, crossing his arms over his chest and pushing his lip into a pout. Wilson sighed and stood up from the bed, shaking his head as he moved out of the bedroom and into the hallway.

A second later, the lights went out in the apartment.

"Karma, Jimmy! Karma!" House cried triumphantly, jumping off the bed, careful to put his weight on his good leg. "God _so_ did not approve of you rejecting me like that!" House moved toward the hallway, and realized in the doorway that the apartment was quiet. "Jimmy?" He called, a smirk playing on his lips as he moved down the hall toward the kitchen. "Where are you?"

A loud crash in the kitchen startled House for a moment before he turned the corner into the living room. "You better not have broken anything of _mine_," he said, squinting into the dark kitchen, trying to find the shadowy figure of his partner. The silence made his pulse started to pick up, and he strained to hear around him. "James?" He shuffled into the kitchen, his feet sliding along the cool tile. "Wilson?" He asked, then stopped when his feet hit something – _someone_ – on the floor.

House dropped to his knees, trying to keep his weight on his good leg as he bit back a groan from the pain shooting up his bad one, and ran his hands up the torso until he found the gasped, startled. "What did you _do_?" He asked shakily, pressing fingers into Wilson's neck to find a pulse, his fingers sliding on what he could only assume to be blood.

When he didn't find a pulse, he started rummaging through Wilson's pockets, trying to find his cell phone or pager. He found neither, and groaned loudly, placing hands on top of Wilson's chest to start compressions. "Don't die on me. I can't even see what you did," he muttered, shaking his head as tears started stinging his eyes. "Wait here. I need a phone," he said to Wilson's still body, unsure of why he was telling an unconscious person to stay put, but knew he was fighting off shock.

He gripped the nearest counter and pulled himself up, the pain in his leg making it almost unbearable to take a step forward. Just as he took an uneasy step, the lights in the apartment came back on. House looked down and moaned, his stomach rolling at the sight in front of him.

"What happened?" He asked softly, falling to his knees again, the pain in his leg forgotten with the phone. Adrenaline started coursing through him as he touched Wilson's bloody neck, knowing it didn't matter if he called an ambulance now or in an hour. "You didn't cut your own neck," House said to himself, and just as he turned to empty his stomach onto the floor, movement behind him made him let out a scream.

House shot upright in bed, blinking past the sweat and tears that were in his eyes. He dry heaved once at the dissipating memory of the dream – nightmare – and he rolled onto his side to stare at the clock beside his bed. It was just after midnight; he'd gotten home just over an hour ago, and had been asleep barely thirty minutes, if that.

Despite having only slept half an hour, the memories of the events that took place during the day came crashing back. House brought the heels of his hands to his eyes and put pressure to his head, quietly cursing to himself about how he was behaving.

Minutes passed before House managed to force himself upright. He moved slowly to the edge of the bed and lowered his feet to the floor. He hung his head, and tears stung his eyes again.

All he could _selfishly_ think about was what would happened to him if Wilson died, destined to live the rest of his life alone, in this shitty apartment.

"I won't live long without you," House said to the empty room, wiping a rogue tear from his cheek slowly. He raised his head and stared into the dark.

With the thought, _I don't even know what I'm doing at home_, House willed himself to stand up and he grabbed his cane from the side of the bed. With a wince, he moved forward, completely aware that his body was exhausted and sore, and the Vicodin he'd taken before bed was making him feel like he was floating. _I need to get to the hospital. I can't stay here_, he thought, flipping the light switch on to find his clothes.

After a minute of changing into jeans and a (probably) dirty shirt, House pulled on his shoes and grabbed his car keys. If shitty sleep was going to happen to him no matter where he went, he'd rather spend his night at the hospital than alone at his place.

----------**-----------

The lights in the hospital room were mostly off, with the exception of the emergency lights and soft light above Wilson's bed. The room was also empty of anyone but Wilson, which was a relief to House. The nurse briefly explained that Cuddy had given Wilson's parents the option of staying at the hospital – as visiting hours were over – but they'd declined the offer. The idea of staying all night in uncomfortable furniture or on-call beds reserved for doctors had been unappealing to them, and House wondered why they would leave, but he didn't care enough to think about it.

After all, he had left. Why couldn't they?

House found himself staring at Wilson's still body, watching his chest rise and fall with the ventilator. The room felt hot and too small as he stood there, taking in Wilson's battered face and bandaged head. His arms, resting above the blanket, had bruises and road rash. He wondered why he hadn't noticed the minor injuries earlier, but the events of the day were so blurred in his own memory that he couldn't remember it all. Wilson's other injuries had been more serious.

Not for the first time, House was thankful no other parts of his body were seriously injured.

_Only his leg and head_, he thought sadly, and reached out to touch Wilson's shin lightly. He half-expected the man to jerk awake, and was disappointed when he didn't.

The door to the room opened slowly, and House turned his head away from the intruder to wipe his face in shame. It was one thing to openly cry, but another thing entirely to not _know_ you were crying until you were caught.

"I thought you were going home."

House cleared his throat and glanced at Thirteen sideways, watching her take Wilson's chart. He kept his eyes on Wilson as her hands worked confidently, testing Wilson's reflexes, checking his pulse, feeling for a fever. A twinge of jealousy – actual _jealousy_ – sparked in House, but he ignored it; he had no reason to feel that way.

"I thought it would be rude to go home, since I'd hire a hooker if I did," House answered in a low voice, not wanting to wake Wilson up. There was a small chance he'd wake up anyway, even if he screamed in his ear.

"Do you need anything?" she asked, writing on the chart for a few seconds, then hung it back on the bed. She raised her eyes to his, waiting for an answer.

"A real bed," he said, gesturing to the chair that changed into a bed. "My leg can't handle that thing at all."

"Patient beds aren't much more comfortable," she said, her voice quiet. "I'll try to find one, though."

House nodded and sat down beside Wilson's bed as she left the room. He raised his hand to Wilson's bruised cheek and brushed his knuckles over his skin gently. The side of Wilson's mouth twitched as his hand moved, and House watched, fascinated that his touch made his partner almost smile, even in his drug-induced sleep.

Watching him, he wanted to wake him up, to talk to him and know right this second if he was okay. Instead, he let his hand fall from Wilson's face and he nervously started picking at the blanket, unsure of what to do with his hands. Wilson was going to be okay – the only option Wilson had _was_ to get better – but he was having a hard time trying to figure out what to do with himself until Wilson did wake up and come home.

Minutes dragged on as House waited for Thirteen to show up with a bed. Wilson's vitals never changed, but every few seconds a part of his body would twitch: his fingers, his left foot, and once, his whole hand. It was a relief to see him moving, even if it wasn't on purpose.

_I just need you to wake up_, House thought in despair, tightening his hands into fists on top of the blanket. Never in a million years did he think he'd be here as a patient's family. _I'm the one who should be here, struggling to survive. You don't deserve this_. The thought made him lower his head over the bed in shame. Things happened for reasons nobody could explain, and he _knew_ this was a terrible accident. The last thing he needed to do was bargain or wish it was him in that bed instead, because the fact of the matter was House probably wouldn't have survived the accident.

The doors opened again, and House looked up, moving his hands from the bed to his lap. Thirteen glanced at him, smiled, and turned her back to grab the hospital bed. He watched her pull it into the room, and he stood from his chair to move it out of the way as she got closer.

"The last bed on the floor. If we get any emergency patients tonight, we'll have to get it from you," she said apologetically. House nodded, not trusting his own voice, and waited until she had the bed positioned near the window before speaking.

"Has he woken up since the surgery?"

"No. But he will. We're lowering his pain medication tomorrow," she explained, and raised her hand briefly before dropping it to her side. House wondered if she was going to try to comfort him.

"You don't have to give _him_ the pain meds. Just get the same amount and toss them to me. I can always use more," House offered, raising his eyebrows innocently. She smiled again and shook her head, but wisely stayed quiet.

House pursed his lips and glanced at Wilson. The dream – nightmare – he had before he came back to the hospital flashed through his mind's eye, and he wished he was at home with Wilson, watching stupid TV shows and griping about it.

"Once he wakes up and his head injury checks out, he'll be out of here in no time," Thirteen said quietly, and this time she did put a hand on his shoulder. House shrugged it off uneasily, and she sighed. "Why don't you try to get some sleep?"

"I don't need _you_ mothering me," House snapped, glaring at her for a moment before lowering his gaze back to Wilson. "I'm fine. This whole thing is overkill. He should have come home already."

"So the bleeding in his brain could kill him in bed?" Thirteen asked, and House saw her fold her arms across her chest, fully indignant. "Even _you_ wouldn't take a chance like that."

"Regardless," he said, waving his free hand through the air. "I would have known if something was going on. A subdural hematoma can heal on its own without a drain. He probably would have been fine."

Thirteen nodded and patted his shoulder again before leaving. He didn't know if she was agreeing with him, or trying to placate him, but the best thing she could do was walk away without speaking. No matter what she said, he would've been angry.

Once the door closed behind her, he dragged the bed she brought for him beside Wilson's, as close as he could get it, before lowering the rails on both beds. He sat down and watched Wilson's chest rise and face with the ventilator's help.

"It's bad enough that I work here," House said to his unconscious partner, placing his cane against the bed. "But now I have to stay here overnight, too. You demand so much of me."

The only answer House got was the sound of the machines, and he sighed. After briefly looking over Wilson's vitals, making sure for the hundredth time that he was as okay as he was going to be, House laid down on his bed. He pulled the blanket up to his chest and rolled onto his side so he could watch Wilson's face.

Carefully, he reached across to the other bed and put his hand beside Wilson's. He tentatively put his fingers on the back of Wilson's hand and trailed the pads of his fingers over the pale skin.

Minutes later, he was asleep, his fingers intertwined with Wilson's.

----------**----------

House was barely listening to what his team was telling him in the office the next morning. They were explaining the symptoms their latest patient was showing, and for once, the mystery didn't grab him. Instead, he paced the length of his outer office, glancing at the white board out of habit more than anything else, waiting impatiently for the page – or phone call – from Cuddy, telling him Wilson was up.

He wanted to be there. Part of him _needed_ to be there. His ducklings had all told him at varying points of their differential that it wasn't necessary for him to be here. Foreman said he could handle it, and while House had made some vague insult toward Foreman's intelligence, he knew deep down that the neurologist certainly could handle all of this.

It was just too much for him. He had felt himself shut down at some point during the early morning, after he'd slept for a few uninterrupted hours. Listening to the ventilator and the heart monitor, mixed with the quiet hush of the hospital had put a worm of doubt inside his head. It was infuriating for the pure fact that House _knew_ nothing was wrong with Wilson, not anymore, and he still couldn't shake that writhing worry and doubt from his head.

So instead he left Wilson's room (after a quick peck on his forehead) and started his day hours early. After debating whether he should cause a scene by showering in a random patient's bathroom, he went to the nearest locker room and quickly rinsed off before throwing his dirty and wrinkled clothes back on.

It wasn't like he had to impress patients or anything.

The cafeteria was full of employees and families of patients who looked like they'd held all night vigils beside a bed. Many of them were haggard and tired, their clothes as wrinkled as his.

House found himself agitated that he was lumped into the third category of 'an employee who has a family member at the hospital'. Wrinkled work attire suddenly seemed worse than just rumpled street clothes; he felt like every eye was on him, people knowing just by looking at him what his story was.

_I'm not dressed like an employee,_ he told himself repeatedly before grabbing food and coffee – and, sticking with tradition, using Wilson's cash from his wallet to pay.

Breakfast in his office was quiet without his team, and by the time he'd finished eating and filling out paperwork for his last three patients (one was long overdue), the team had assembled around the table, casting furtive glances in his direction.

While work normally kept his mind off of his personal life, it didn't today and he badly needed it to. Wilson's family was probably back, waiting beside his bed for the first signs that the head injury wasn't life-altering.

Seeing Foreman and the rest of the team here meant they all had either willingly relinquished their roles as Wilson's doctor, or Cuddy had stripped them of their duties.

When he asked, Kutner said nervously, "It was a little of both. Cuddy had this case for us, and to be honest, we don't want to mess him up."

House rolled his eyes, but knew it was for the best. _If_ something happened that ended up being their fault, he would fire them all and never look back, except maybe to blame Cuddy for not pulling them from the case. They were too involved emotionally – even though there wasn't a relationship or even a friendship between Wilson and the team – and it was the best option for everyone.

"This is childish, even for you, House," Taub said finally, the tone of his voice all but demanding House's attention. He glanced up, realizing that he'd been staring at the floor and scratching his head for some time. "Just go back to Wilson."

"Wilson's not dying. This patient is. He has a large support system in the room right now, and I'm sure they've pulled their schizo son out of the hospital to be here too. It's a warm, loving time for them that doesn't need to be crushed with me there. This patient has no one."

Foreman snorted as he drank his coffee, keeping his eyes locked on House as he swallowed it. Then he said, "So what you're telling us is you are here to help with this patient because you want to be here for this stranger instead of your boyfriend. That your boyfriend has enough love, so you're spreading your love to our 75 year old loner. How thoughtful of you."

"Thank you. I thought so myself," House said with a slight bow, then resumed his pacing throughout the room again. "Now, will _someone_ do something productive here? I hate that I'm the only one creating any kind of energy in this room."

_They should have woken him up by now_, House thought nervously, glancing at his watch. The fellows began rustling papers behind him, preparing to run off to perform tests, and he took his opportunity to leave, deciding that he was done waiting.

Whether or not Wilson was ready to wake up, or his doctors were comfortable with doing it themselves, House was fed up. He was going to wake Wilson up himself, regardless of what anyone else thought.

* * *

I'm so sorry this is sooooooooo late! My internet went out for a few days, and it's still a bit wonky, but it's better than nothing.


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